Marco met him, behind him a crouching, snarling, bestial form, but of that latter Colin had a very brief glimpse. Genghis Khan may have recognized the enemy who had chased him across five miles of rough going after breaking his right arm, now bandaged in splints at his side. Khan promptly retreated, sliding through, the door and out of sight with the streaking speed of a giant white cockroach. But Marco held his ground.
'You-you!' he mumbled, pointing a shaking, furious finger. '
'Better I than some others less respectful,' retorted O'Hara calmly. 'Is your master here?'
'Well, you know he is not! You fear him-everyone fears him! You come when he is gone! Put her down-let me take my lady!'
Coming at him, the albino thrust his hand beneath the girl's shoulders as if to tear her away. At that she screamed for the first time, clutching at Colin with small, convulsive fingers.
Then Colin struck Marco with the full weight of his fist, and with all his really terrible strength at the back of the blow.
It was a needless, savage act, as he afterward condemned it.
Marco was no possible match for him. In cold blood he would have brushed the albino aside without harming him. But the sight of that repulsive, red-eyed, pallid thing clawing at the girl, and the loathing and the terror in her voice acted upon him like a draft of maddening liquor. He struck without thought or premeditation, as at some noxious insect, desiring only to crush it, obliterate it from the world it polluted by living.
The blow caught Marco just under the point of the chin. His head flew back with an audible snap, his body jerked through the air, and sliding full length across the porch, brought up at the inner threshold. It twitched spasmodically and lay quiet.
Colin stood, and the girl clung to him, silent and quivering.
Very softly he ascended the steps, crossed the porch, and gently disengaging her arms set his burden down within the doorway, her bare feet on the dry softness of a rug.
Then he bent over Marco. He had hit him hard-too hard, and well he knew it. A thin, scarlet trickle was running from a corner of the flaccid mouth. He was not at all surprised when, lifting the albino's shoulders, the head dropped back with the limpness of a broken stick held together by a few torn fibers. He felt for Marco's heart and examined his neck with inquiring fingers. Then he laid him back and rose.
From the dead man he looked up to his mad Dusk Lady. She was watching him with dark, wondering eyes. Her wet, green gown clung to limbs and body, close as the green bark of a young tree, and the thick curls of her hair glistened black and shining.
Like some sorrowful spirit of the storm-torn forest she stood there, and Colin was ashamed before her. He, who had come to protect and guard her, had been betrayed by his temper and thereby involved them in Heaven only knew what entanglements.
'My lord, why do you look so sad and stern? Have I given you offense?'
'You! Poor child, no, 'tis myself has offended-but how, never mind. Go to your room, little lady, and dress yourself so that I may take you to a kinder place. At least, Marco will trouble you no more the night. He is- hurt.'
'Hurt? Is he not dead?'
She said it so simply and with so childlike an inflection of disappointment that the words took Colin aback.
'Never mind that!' he retorted almost sharply. 'Never mind that! Go dress yourself dry and warm, and put on a coat, if you have one, against the rain.'
Frowning, she looked down at her one inadequate but becoming garment.
'I owe you gentle obedience, my lord, but I had vowed never to don robes of
'Indeed, and I fear you must. They'll not let us on the train otherwise.'
She meditated a moment longer. Then, 'I will put on me a coat, since my lord desires it,' and she started for the stair.
Remembering Genghis Khan, O'Hara followed. She led him straight to the door at the end of the second floor hall, where he had first seen her. It stood open, and as she entered he looked in over her shoulder.
He saw a large bedroom, well, even luxuriously furnished. Clearly, careless though he might be of her welfare in other respects, Reed did not begrudge money spent on his daughter's immediate surroundings.
Having made sure that the great ape was lurking nowhere in the room, and having closed the window above a rain-flooded Persian rug, O'Hara left his charge alone. She had said nothing in that while, only watched hum with attentive eyes that followed every move with quiet interest, and he himself had little mind for conversation.
But in the act of closing her door he turned back. 'Where's the phone?' said he.
'The-the phone?'
'The telephone-the box they talk through when a bell rings,' explained O'Hara patiently.
She shook her head, with a look of perplexed distress that was to him unutterably pathetic. Dusk Lady indeed, ever wandering through the twilight of a darkened mind!
'I'll find it myself,' said he hastily, and closed the door.
Down the stairs he went, heavy and slow, weighed down by a great sickness of the spirit. Despite Reed's assurance, despite the dictates of everyday reason, O'Hara had until the last hour been possessed of a secret, unvoiced hope that this girl, the glamour of whose elfin personality had drawn him as no woman ever drew him before, might prove to be a sane and normal being. That hope was dead now-dead as the unlucky albino slain in his master's doorway. And for the sake of a mad girl he had committed a crime which in his own eyes debased him to the level of any common thug.
Coming at last to the stair foot, he turned and crossed toward the corpse of his poor, repulsive victim. And reaching the threshold of the hall, lo, it was empty!
The body of Marco lay there no more, nor any trace of it.
CHAPTER XIX. Cliona Receives a Guest
'I'LL pay the fare, for I've no tickets.' The conductor nodded and counted out change.
'A nasty sort of night, Mr. O'Hara,' he observed affably.
Like every man on that short line, he knew half his passengers by sight, many by name, and there was little gossip going about at any of the smaller stations with which he was not acquainted. O'Hara had ridden with him only a few times, but the conductor was familiar with every extraneous fact concerning the Irishman's life at Carpentier. He remembered taking him to Undine earlier in the evening.
Now O'Hara was going in town, where he was said never to go, and accompanied by a mysterious female.
At that hour-eleven thirty-there was not another passenger on the inbound train, so the conductor had plenty of leisure for curious thoughts.
Sitting on the dusty red plush cushions beside his silent Dusk Lady, O'Hara's mind dwelt grimly on the results of his little expedition.
The disappearance of Marco's body troubled him, though he had made no effort to find it. Perhaps in the few moments that he was absent above-stairs, Genghis Khan had carried it away; or it might be that another witness than the girl had seen the slaying of Marco, someone who feared to show himself to this savage invader of Reed's domicile.
One idea he clung to. Whatever he himself had done, Reed's daughter should not spend another night in that house of mysterious human and bestial inhabitants.
She was silent and unquestioning, and he glad of her silence. When she talked his reason continually rebelled against the eccentricities of her speech. Silent, he felt renewed that intangible bond which seemed to exist between his nature and hers. Silent, he could almost forget that between them was also the dread specter of insanity.
'My lord, are you still angered with me?'
